That Which We Call a Rose
by Shedemei
Summary: A story in which Lucy never took arsenic, one generation begins and another continues, an execution is narrowly averted, and there exists much controversy over names and their power.
1. Hell

That Which We Call a Rose

Chapter One: Hell

Summary: A story in which Lucy never took arsenic, one generation begins and another continues, an execution is narrowly averted, and much controversy over names and their power.

Disclaimer: If I owned _Sweeney Todd_, neither Sweeney nor Mrs. Lovett would have died. So needless to say, I don't own it.

Pairings: AnthonyJohanna, Swucy, Sweenett

Author's Notes: I've had this idea for…um…over a year now. I've been putting it off because it required more skill than I had when it popped into my head. Well, actually, I wasn't planning to write it, but the plot bunnies won't leave me alone.

* * *

Sweeney Todd had never stepped foot in London. It was extraordinarily queer and almost disquieting to have memories of a place he had never been. For while Benjamin Barker had lived in London all his life, Sweeney Todd had spent his nascent years in Hell, a sweltering pit of scorching sun and human brutality. After the cruel brightness of Australia, the gray skies of London might have seemed kind, but to Sweeney it looked as if Benjamin's pleasant recollection of London had been painted over with a concoction of filth and cheap whitewash.

He could not shake the feeling of moving through grimy memories as he proceeded to Fleet Street. Had London changed so much since Benjamin Barker had walked the streets? Or did Sweeney Todd simply understand how sordid the city was, and could now see the corruption as dirt and gloom?

The building at 186 Fleet Street suffered from the same gray film as the rest of London. As impractical as it was to think that Benjamin Barker's home had been somehow preserved during those fifteen long years of imprisonment, it still unsettled him to see that some of the widows were dirtier than he remembered, or that the wood looked rotten in places, or that the sign over Mrs. Lovett's Pie Emporium was faded and weather-worn. Or had the place always looked that way, and he had never noticed?

There may have been a bell above the door to the pie shop to signal the arrival of a customer, but either it was rusty or broken, for it didn't ring. Had there ever been a bell? Sweeney had thought he remembered a bright chime above Benjamin's head every time he had walked through that door. And the woman behind the counter was different, painfully, strikingly different; his memories of Benjamin's neighbors were blurry, like faces in dreams. Standing in front of him in the flesh, Mrs. Lovett was thrown into sharp relief. Her dry mousy curls flew every which way, her eyes rimmed with smudged dark makeup, flour dusting her clothes, her nails ragged and dirty. Sweeney shied away instinctively as she looked up with a little gasp. "A customer!"

She herded him into a seat, babbling about how she hadn't gotten customers in ages or some such. She plunked one of her meat pies down in front of him, urged him to try it to prove how terrible it was…

He thought he heard a voice drift down from the upper story.

He leapt to his feet, nearly knocking the woman over as she strode over to him with a mug of ale.

"Now what's got you so riled up, sir?"

He seized her by the arm. "Who lives upstairs?"

She looked him full in the face, almost frightened. "Why…why, the seamstress Lucy Barker and 'er daughter."

Sweeney's gaze gravitated toward the stairwell. Lovett could see his eyes turn misty. "Lucy," he whispered, in a tender tone of voice that Sweeney Todd's throat barely knew how to make. His grip on the baker's arm relaxed.

"You know 'er?" Mrs. Lovett's brow furrowed. Then realization spread over her face and her eyes widened. "No. It can't be." Sweeney didn't notice, but Mrs. Lovett took his face in her hands, brushing one thumb over his cheekbone. "Benjamin Barker?"

The sound of that old name shook Sweeney from his reverie, and he flinched away from the baker's touch. "No," he said, almost snarling. "That man is dead. It's Todd now. Sweeney Todd. And he has spent fifteen years sweating in a living hell on a false charge…and has come to see his wife and child. Now, out of my way!"

"Wait!" The woman called as he charged up the stairs. "Sir, you don't wan'na do that!"

Sweeney burst into the upper story. "Lucy!"

The room was not like he remembered. The arrangement of the furniture was different. There were more decorations on the walls. But he spent only a few seconds observing his surroundings, for what caught his attention was the woman standing before the mirror, braiding the long corn-colored hair of a younger woman, that hair, that yellow hair…

The woman started when she heard Sweeney's voice. She whirled, and when she saw him, there was no expression of recognition on her face, only unsubtle fear. The younger woman reacted similarly, backing up against the small table in front of the mirror. Lucy stepped in front of the younger woman, arms spread out protectively. "Who are you? What do you want?" The panic in her voice was manifest.

Mrs. Lovett emerged from the stairs, brandishing a rolling pin. Lucy calmed visibly at the sight of her. "Ain't nothin' to fear, Mrs. Barker."

Sweeney felt his heart begin to race painfully. "You don't recognize me?"

"Who are you?" The voice was unfamiliar, very soft and sweet and feminine, and it took Sweeney a moment to realize he had heard his grown daughter's voice for the first time. How old was she, sixteen?

"Johanna," he whispered, almost unconsciously.

The girl's eyebrows shot up. "How do you know my name?"

"I'm your father." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. This was not how he had intended to reunite with his family. He had expected Lucy to recognize him immediately and welcome him home with open arms, and then to tearfully introduce her daughter to her father for the first time in so many years. Why didn't Lucy recognize him?

"Enough of this!" Lucy cried, her voice rising to a note of hysteria.

"Oh, for Chris'sakes..." Mrs. Lovett grumbled, lowering her rolling pin to her side. "You lost your senses completely now, Mrs. Barker? It's been a while, but you're tellin' me you don't recognize your own husband?"

"Benjamin?" Lucy gasped at the same time as Johanna murmured "Father?"

Sweeney took a few tentative steps forward; Lucy did the same, her eyes locked with his. But within a few moments Sweeney could not restrain himself any longer and he swept Lucy into his arms, clutching her tightly to him. "Lucy," he whispered over and over, burying his face in her hair. Suddenly he realized she was trying to wriggle free of his tight embrace and, startled, he let her go. "What's wrong?"

Lucy looked up at him, confused, almost afraid. "Benjamin was always gentle."

"'e's only 'appy to see you," Mrs. Lovett pointed out.

Something about the sound of her voice, maybe just the knowledge that she was still there, bothered Sweeney. He turned his head in Lovett's direction and snarled, "Get out."

She flinched a little at the harshness of the words, but she left.

"That wasn't necessary," Johanna demurred, lightly touching her father's arm. She was scrutinizing his face, no doubt searching for any resemblance to her. She wouldn't find any, Sweeney thought; she was the spitting image of her mother.

He smiled at his daughter. "I only wanted to be alone with the two of you. Now…let me look at you, my little dove." He took her gently by the elbow. "You look just like your mother. Just as beautiful, too."

Johanna blushed lightly. "Thank you, father."

"Come here." And Sweeney Todd embraced his daughter for the first time.

Lucy didn't say anything. She was keeping her distance, watching, biting her lips.

"Lucy? What's the matter?"

Lucy looked away.

Johanna gave him a pitying glance. Sweeney felt as if his heart was being squeezed by a hand with bones of iron.

"Lucy?" He walked to her and gently placed a hand on her back; she flinched. "What's the matter, my love?"

She spoke, but still wouldn't look at him. "You're so different. It's almost as if…as if you're an entirely different man."

He hadn't thought of that. Of course he was a different man; had Lucy truly expected him to still be the naïve, demure Benjamin Barker after so many years separated from his family, toiling from dawn til dusk in the killing heat of Botany Bay, subject to random whippings from the men who ran the prison colony?

"Did you think I would return unchanged?"

Lucy began to cry. Even when she cried, she was lovely. "I hoped you would. All these years, all I wanted was my Benjamin back."

Lucy wanted Benjamin. He wasn't Benjamin, but was that really so horrible? He would still love her and take care of her and Johanna. "Please don't call me Benjamin. I don't use that name anymore."

Her cries intensified. "So you really aren't Benjamin! Who are you? Where is my husband?"

"Mother…" Johanna whispered, almost reproaching.

"I'm still your husband. I still love you! But I would…I have changed my name to Sweeney Todd." It had made perfect sense in his head, but sounded almost ridiculous as he spoke the words. The new name had sounded right to him before. But now, echoing off the wooden walls of the room where Benjamin and Lucy Barker had spent their first few rosy years of marriage, it sounded…wrong, out of place.

"You are so different you have a new name now?"

Johanna crossed to wrap an arm around her mother's shoulders.

"I still love you, and Johanna!"

Lucy looked up at him, rivulets of tears rolling down her face. "You don't even know her."

"But I want to." He glanced up desperately at his daughter, whose gaze was still full of pity.

Lucy shook her head. "You are not my Benjamin." She broke away from Johanna and fled downstairs.

"Lucy!" Sweeney cried in anguish. Why couldn't she understand he still loved her, and needed her?

"Father?"

Sweeney struggled not to cry as he faced his daughter. "Yes?"

She walked to him. "This is not your fault."

He looked her in the eyes. Lucy was right that he knew nothing about her. Did she enjoy reading in private, or we should she rather picnic in the park with her family? Was she as skilled at needlepoint as Lucy, or did she prefer knitting? Was she quiet and bookish like Benjamin or shyly effervescent like Lucy…or like Lucy had been? "How do you know?"

"I don't know what Mother was like before you were gone. But…for much of my early childhood, Mother stayed in her room alone, heartbroken over what happened to you. Aunt Nellie raised me until I was five."

His brow furrowed. "Aunt Nellie?"

"Oh—Mrs. Lovett."

Sweeney spared a second or two to imagine the horrible consequences of Johanna being raised by Mrs. Lovett. "She…recovered, though?"

Johanna bit her lower lip and looked away. "Aunt Nellie says Mother used to be different. Much less…suspicious, and nervous. Now she doesn't leave the house unless she absolutely has to, and she rarely lets me leave unless I'm with Aunt Nellie."

Sweeney could have sworn he itched every time Johanna uttered the phrase "Aunt Nellie." "Did your mother used to talk about me?"

Johanna nodded. "Oh, yes. She talked about Benjamin, anyway."

Sweeney could hear an implicit question in Johanna's tone. "I am…not Benjamin Barker anymore. But that changes nothin' about how I feel about your mother."

"As you said," Johanna said softly.

"My time in Australia changed me. I am a different person, and your mother…"

"…was waiting for Benjamin," Johanna finished. She took his hand.

"Johanna…" He kissed her forehead.

"It's so good to finally see you, Father."

"I'm goin' to talk to your mother."

"I'll come with you."

Sweeney proceeded down the stairs, Johanna following closely behind him. Lucy was crying to Mrs. Lovett, who was saying something about "You'll just have to get used to 'is new name."

"Lucy?"

She glanced briefly at him. "You are _not _Benjamin," she said, yet again.

"Mother, please, give him a chance. Let Father stay with us." Johanna begged.

"Don't be foolish, Lucy," Mrs. Lovett admonished. "Use your 'ead for once."

Lucy stood up and faced Sweeney. "I will allow no man but Benjamin Barker in my home," she intoned. "I beg you to leave." She took Johanna's hand and began to practically drag her upstairs.

"Father!" Johanna cried out, struggling against her mother's grip as both Sweeney and Mrs. Lovett shouted Lucy's name, Sweeney desperately, Mrs. Lovett angrily. But then she had vanished into the upper story and Johanna along with her.

Mrs. Lovett sighed irritably. "Sorry about that, dear," she said. Sweeney glared at her; why was she calling him "dear"? "You ain't the only one who's changed over the years."

Anger bubbled in Sweeney's stomach. He had lived in Hell, and he had struggled more in a few months than ten ordinary men did in their entire lifetimes in order to get home. Now his wife, for whom he would walk through Hell again, was rejecting him, and this undistinguished, unbeautiful woman who happened to be his neighbor was calling him "dear." Oh, and she was still talking…

"Well, you can move in 'ere until she comes around. I'm sure I can set you up on the davenport…"

"No."

She looked a bit startled.

"I won't stay with any woman but Lucy."

"Now, Mr. Todd, don't go bein' stubborn as your wife just because she is…"

He thought he had every damn right to be stubborn. "It would be disloyal to her."

"Disloyal? She's the one that's bein' disloyal. And if you stay 'ere, you can still see Johanna. She 'elps me in the shop quite a bit."

He was through dealing with Mrs. Lovett. So instead of replying, he simply walked out of the building, ignoring her continued protests.

Of course, he had nowhere to go. After he stormed off, he did not even get to the next street before that niggling knowledge that he had no destination forced him to slow and stop. He leaned against the nearest shop wall, silently fuming. He had no money, and couldn't afford to stay at an inn. He supposed he could attempt to find Anthony and appeal to what the young sailor would call his "Christian charity," but he did now know where Anthony was staying.

It was after a few more minutes of aggravated rumination that he reached his answer, or rather his answer reached him.

"Oh, good, you didn't get too far." It was Mrs. Lovett again. Had she been this annoying before he had been transported? "I brought you this." She held out a cloth bag to him. He looked at it as if he feared it would bite him. "Your wife didn't get rid of quite all your old things," she explained. "I brought you a blanket, and some food, and some money. It ain't much, but it's all I can spare right now."

He wanted to refuse, but damn her, she was right that he needed money. He snatched the bag from her. It was then that he noticed a rectangular object underneath her other arm, an object that looked incredibly familiar…

She saw him looking. "And I thought these would make you a bit 'appier." She held the box in both of her hands, let him pull back the lid, and there lay…

"My razors," he whispered.

"Thought you might like to see 'em again."

He lifted one of the razors from the box, using just his fingertips, and opened it with a slick metallic noise. "My friends." He turned the razor over and over, holding it up, watching the way the light glinted off the blade, the reflection of the street and buildings only slightly blurred. His razors would never refuse him, never neglect him, never lie to him. Always, they would show him exactly how sharp they were, exactly how clean they were, exactly what was hovering over his shoulder…

…and speaking of which…

"What do you think you're doin'?"

For reasons Sweeney couldn't begin to understand, Mrs. Lovett took that question as permission to rest her chin on his shoulder. "Don't you worry, Mr. Todd. We'll bring 'er around. You'll be back 'ome before you know it." And then she had the nerve to wrap her arms around him. What, did she think she was being comforting?

Sweeney returned to admiring his razor. It had been so long since they had been used. He found himself wondering if it was still sharp after all those years…

Mrs. Lovett cried out when the blade cut into the back of her hand, and withdrew her arms from his waist. "What're you playin' at?" She cradled her injured hand.

"Let me see." He seized her wrist and held her hand out for examination. The cut was very thin, and precise, and blood oozed steadily from it. Satisfied, he let go and turned away. "Now leave me."

"You just cut me!"

"A bit slow, are you?" he snarled. Mrs. Lovett had placed the box of razors on the ground—how dare she!—so he picked it up and wiped off the bloodied razor before replacing it next to its fellows.

She gaped at him for a moment. "So changed! What did they do to you in Australia?"

He slipped the razors into the bag she had brought him. "I said, leave me." He slung the bag over a shoulder.

"I'm tryin' to 'elp you. You won't even say 'thank you'?"

For the second time that day, Sweeney walked away from Mrs. Lovett without answering.

Still a bit shaken, Mrs. Lovett proceeded back to 186 Fleet Street. Johanna was sitting at one of the tables, waiting, and Lucy was standing on the bottom step, pressed tightly against the wall as if she were afraid of entering the room. Mrs. Lovett had never quite ceased to be annoyed by the overly suspicious nature Lucy had developed after what nearly happened that fateful night at the residence of Judge Turpin, and sometimes referred to what she called Lucy's "affection for walls" when Lucy was not present. "Is Father all right?" Johanna queried anxiously.

"I think 'e'll be all right. I gave 'im enough for a night or two at an inn."

"Do you think he'll be back?" That was Lucy, who was still practically embracing the wall. Judging from her tone, she was hoping Mrs. Lovett's answer would be "no."

Lovett shrugged. "I dunno. But if I 'ad to lay odds, I'd say 'e's like to come back tomorrow and beg you to take 'im back again."

Lucy was about to respond when Johanna gave a little gasp and cut her off. "Aunt Nellie, what happened to your hand?" The young woman leapt up to investigate the cut on the baker's hand. Lucy didn't move, but peered into the room. Her eyes widened when she saw the blood and a hand flew to her mouth.

Mrs. Lovett hesitated a moment before responding. If Sweeney Todd was to have any chance of a reunion with his wife, he would have to act as much like Benjamin Barker as possible, and Benjamin Barker would never, ever have taken a blade to anyone—certainly not a woman—who was treating him kindly. Lucy couldn't know that Sweeney had caused the cut on Mrs. Lovett's hand. Then again…what change did Sweeney Todd have with Lucy Barker, really? She had tried to comfort him, but she had seen Lucy's recent behavior enough to know that she would never accept any man but Benjamin. It would take a miracle for her to accept Sweeney Todd. But if it could be Nellie who accepted Sweeney Todd…it was a small cut, and it would heal. That was all Nellie cared about. "Eh, well…I gave 'is razors back to 'im. And 'e decided to test one of 'em."

"On your hand?" said Johanna, and Lucy made a sound as if it had been her who had been cut.

"It ain't much of a wound. It'll 'eal fine." She went to her counter and scrounged for the cleanest cloth she could, dabbed up the spilled blood, and wrapped it around her hand to keep the wound from becoming dirty or festering.

Johanna and her mother exchanged worried glances. Mrs. Lovett, thinking of what might happen when Sweeney realized the significance of which woman had returned his razors to him, began to hum to herself.

* * *

A/N: Certainly not the longest chapter I've ever written. Probably one of the shorter ones, actually, but I wanted to get the beginning of this one up. Jesus on wheels, I've missed fanfiction.


	2. Room at the Inn

That Which We Call a Rose

Chapter Two: Room at the Inn

Summary: A story in which Lucy never took arsenic, one generation begins and another continues, an execution is narrowly averted, and much controversy over names and their power.

Disclaimer: If I owned _Sweeney Todd_, neither Sweeney nor Mrs. Lovett would have died. So needless to say, I don't own it.

Pairings: AnthonyJohanna, Swucy, Sweenett

Author's Notes: HELL YEAH, IT'S SPRING BREAK! And as such, I have time to write more! Fanfiction seems to be an excellent way to de-stress after midterms.

* * *

Sweeney continued to fume as he stalked the streets. "Stalked" was an excellent word for what he was doing, he decided. His anger at the bothersome baker had dwindled from a white flame to glowing coals, so he wasn't properly storming anymore. He glared at every empty-eyed Londoner he passed, feeling utterly aware of how inane the person's life was simply by looking at them. He was fairly certain it was a feeling akin to what an alley cat that was not particularly hungry at the moment felt while inspecting the local scurrying rats.

He decided he might as well find the place where the sailor—Anthony Hope—was staying. The boy was somewhat of an ally, it seemed, and much less irritating than Mrs. Lovett. However much money the woman had given him, he might need more soon, and the sailor could be of some help to him there. So Sweeney walked to the docks and set about finding the inn nearest there. The first innkeeper he met was maddeningly unhelpful and seemingly too drunk to answer the question "Is a young sailor with corn-yellow hair by the name of Anthony Hope stayin' here?" He ended up leaving in frustration, unwilling to search every room for the sailor boy. Luckily, the second innkeeper was sober, and remembered seeing Anthony. Sweeney found him in the room name under which he was registered. Anthony was oddly happy to see him.

"Mr. Todd! What a pleasant surprise! What brings you here?"

Sweeney was getting rather fed up with the wrong people being happy to see him. "I am no longer welcome in my former home."

The sailor's face fell. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Todd."

"I'll be stayin' here for now."

"Ah. If there's anythin' you need, sir…"

"You'll be the first," Sweeney said curtly. "I thought I would let you know." Without any attempt at a courteous farewell, he walked off and found the room to which he had been assigned. He flung his few belongings down on the bed and sat.

Now what was he to do? Back in London at long last, and his wife had turned him out. Now he was stuck in this reeking waterfront inn with nothing worthwhile. He had to win Lucy back somehow. She had refused him because he was no longer Benjamin, but there was nothing he could do about that; Benjamin had died years ago, a slow, agonizing death, day after day slipping away a tiny bit more, until there was nothing left but rage. There was no changing back to being Benjamin Barker, so he would have to convince Lucy that there was nothing wrong with his being a different man. Only…how was he to go about doing that? Perhaps if he was able to convince her he still loved her, she might take him back. Johanna might help him; she seemed to understand. If he could speak to her again, perhaps he could ask her to help finesse her mother, assuming she wasn't already trying such a thing. He wanted to see his daughter again. Already the details of her face were fading in his memory. Could he go back home tomorrow, perhaps if he brought a gift? Not flowers, though—he and Lucy had been in the flower section of the market when he was taken. Had Lucy been able to go to the market after he was gone? Was it too painful for her to see where they had been together for the last time? In any case, if he brought her flowers, it might cause her painful memories. Unless…unless he could bring her a bouquet, and it could somehow prove that painful memories were nothing they couldn't get though.

He did not feel hungry, but he had trained himself years ago not to be slave to his body's needs, for not even the most basic necessity of thirst was properly attended to in Botany Bay; he knew it would be healthy for him to eat, and he didn't want to look ill-nourished for Lucy. So he ate the meal Mrs. Lovett had packed for him, telling himself it only tasted good because he was now used to food that bore an uncanny resemblance to mud. He undressed halfway to make himself more comfortable and got into bed. He hadn't slept in a real bed since before his arrest. He had always suspected that he would immediately fall dead asleep the moment he lay down on a real bed, but the softness of even the worn and cheap sheets of the bed felt almost too comfortable. He had never found sleeping on cold, hard rock comfortable, of course, but a real bed felt foreign. Not to mention that when he had imagined sleeping in a bed, in his mind Lucy was lying in his arms.

Sweeney was exhausted, both physically and mentally, but it still took him hours to fall asleep.

* * *

It was late mid-morning when the barber finally woke following a fitful sleep frequently interrupted by vague nightmares. He shook his head to clear his head of the troubling visions and beads of sweat flew from his hair. He toweled his hair with a pillowcase and waited until he felt less hot and stifled to dress. By then, it was near dinnertime. He skulked downstairs to see if he could obtain some food from the small tavern below the rooms. The food was, in the minds of most, fairly lousy, but Sweeney Todd was used to prison food that rats wouldn't touch. He thought midday was a rather inconvenient time to visit Lucy; perhaps he could go after supper. Also, he realized he had only the meager savings the baker had given him; he had little or nothing to spare. No doubt the bright-eyed young sailor would find the prospect of Sweeney trying to win back his wife horribly romantic and give him plenty of money for flowers or other gifts. So he sought out Anthony and, as he had predicted, received adequate funds for small romantic presents. He then made a quick trip to the nearest writing supply store where he purchased a few sheets of paper and a cheap quill pen, and returned to his room to set about making a list of small trinkets he remembered Lucy liking.

It was early evening when there was a light knock on his door. He gave an irritated snarl and shouted "Not now!" in the general direction of the door.

"Mr. Todd? Is that you?"

He grimaced. He would have recognized that bloody voice anywhere. "What part of 'not now' is so difficult to understand, Mrs. Lovett?"

"Your daughter is worried about you."

His daughter. Had Mrs. Lovett brought Johanna with her? He quickly moved to the door and opened it, to his chagrin, the baker was alone.

"I'm glad I found you," she said, almost breathless.

He wasn't. "What are you doin' here? And how did you find me?"

"I just asked around. You've a rather easy face to remember. And…well, Lucy's awful protective of your daughter, and she don't let 'er leave the 'ouse much. But Johanna's been bellyachin' over whether or not you'd found a place and whatnot, so I promised 'er I'd find out what you were doin'."

She looked as if she wanted to come in the room. He reached his arm across the doorway and placed a palm against the frame, blocking her. "Well, you've found me. Isn't that all you wanted?"

"I thought you deserved an explanation."

"For what?"

"For your wife's behavior." She eyed the inside of the room. "Can I come in?"

He suppressed the urge to grumble and removed his arm. She walked inside and took a look around. It was just then that he noticed she was carrying a cloth bag similar to the one she had given him the previous day. She saw him looking. "Oh—I brought you a few more things. Clothes, mostly, and a few other little things I thought you might need. Johanna 'elped me." She proffered the bag and he took it from her.

"How is she?"

"Well, but for 'er worryin' about you. But it's Lucy I wanted to talk to you about."

"What about her?"

Mrs. Lovett's brow furrowed. "Ain't you wondered why she was so…intent in you not stayin' with 'er?"

"Yes," he admitted grudgingly.

"Well…" The baker seated herself on a small stool beside the bed. "Why don't you sit down, dear? It's a rather long story."

Sweeney sat on the bed, wondering irritably at the epithet Mrs. Lovett had ascribed him. Perhaps she was one of those people who called everyone "dear" and "sweet." He vaguely recalled (if it wasn't his memory inventing things) her referring to Benjamin in such a way.

Mrs. Lovett folded her hands in her lap and looked at him, trying to make eye contact; he averted his eyes.

"You know why you were sent off on a trumped-up charge, don't you?"

His throat went dry. Of course he knew. There wasn't a day that went by in prison that he had prayed that his beloved Lucy had managed to stay out of the clutches of the vulture's claws, and after he lost his faith, he simply hoped against hope. His voice was strangled when he spoke. "Judge Turpin."

She nodded. "Because 'e was after your wife."

"What happened to Lucy?" There was an edge to his voice that made Mrs. Lovett flinch.

"Well…after you was gone, the Judge would send 'er a flower every day, sometimes loiter around the building, and make official excuses for their bein' there so I couldn't shoo them off. She stopped goin' to market because they'd always be there—either the Judge, or the Beadle, or both—budgin' and wheedlin'. She just ducked 'er 'ead and kept on, of course."

"But what _happened_?" Sweeney snapped. "Why is she so…so…"

"So skittish?"

"Yes!"

"One day the Beadle came to call. And 'e said what the judge really wanted was to apologize, and to make everythin' right, since Lucy was all alone with a year-old little girl and needed 'elp."

"Why couldn't _you _help her?"

"Well, I could only do so much," said Lovett defensively. "And the Beadle would've said the same, or something else sly to make 'er believe 'im. 'Cause she did, of course."

"She actually believed the Judge meant to help her?"

Mrs. Lovett nodded. She opened her mouth to remark upon Sweeney's last sentence, then bit her lip and reconsidered. She cleared her throat and continued. "Anyway, the Beadle said she 'ad to go straight to the Judge's 'ouse that night. I mean, I knew there was trouble afoot, but Lucy wouldn't listen to me. She insisted she go, just in case. But I'd 'eard from a friend that the Judge was 'ostin a bal masque"—Sweeney winced at Mrs. Lovett's attempt at the French pronunciation—"at is 'ouse. So I warned Lucy to be careful, and that she ought'a not get involved with the party, not drink anythin', that sort of thing. So…she'd never tell me exactly what 'appened, but she came 'ome cryin', and said the Judge 'ad tried to take advantage of 'er, but she got away."

"So the Judge didn't…"

"No. I don't think so. Lucy would've fared much worse if…well…she said she got away, and I'm certain she's tellin' the truth."

Sweeney heaved an enormous sigh. He realized he'd been holding his breath.

"But she stopped leavin' the 'ouse. She'd give me money to buy things at market, or other shops. Then she stopped leavin' 'er room. When Johanna was almost two, she stopped leavin' 'er bed. She just lay there, cryin' or sleepin'. She'd 'ardly eat anything. I tried to get 'er out of bed to take care of Johanna, but she wouldn't. I ended up raisin' poor little Johanna until…"

"…until she was five. Yes, she told me," Sweeney finished. "Why did she finally get up?"

"For Johanna, at first. Mostly she didn't want me raisin' 'er daughter for 'er. She finally realized 'ow much work it is to raise a child and that it required 'er to do some actual work and pulled 'erself together. She still don't like to go out, though; I do most of 'er shopping. She don't let Johanna out much at all, and only when she's with me. That's why Johanna couldn't come find you."

Sweeney was quiet for a moment. "So she's…suspicious of everything."

"Includin' 'er 'usband not bein' the man 'e was before."

He rubbed his palms over his face and pushed his hands through his hair. "What can I do?"

Mrs. Lovett propped her chin on her fist and thought about it. "Well, she got 'erself together for the sake of 'er daughter. Maybe if you tried to tell 'er that Johanna deserves a father who loves her…"

He was, of course, not listening to her. He got up and paced. Everything that was wrong with the Barker family was the fault of Judge Turpin. Even if his attempt on Lucy's honor had been foiled…he deserved to be punished. Sweeney could have sworn he felt the blood begin to charge through his veins and grow hot as he recalled the Judge's smug little smirk around the corners of his mouth as Benjamin Barker was dragged from the courtroom for the last time…

"The Judge must die."

Mrs. Lovett startled. "What? But 'ow is that gon'na 'elp?"

"He has to pay for what he did to Lucy!" Sweeney continued, ignoring the other person in the room completely. "If I were to punish him for ruining my family, Lucy would see that I still love her…maybe she would feel more…protected…"

"Now, stop this morbid foolishness!" Mrs. Lovett got up and took him by the arm. "Ain't you thought that you killin' somebody might just frighten 'er more? And what if you get caught? You'll be sent back to prison, or…or worse, killed!" She gripped his wrist tightly.

He yanked his arm away. "Get off."

"Sorry, I just…well, Johanna ain't the only one worried about you."

He seized her upper arm, perhaps mimicking her earlier action. She winced a little, but looked him full in the face instead of trying to pull away. "I can't let that repulsive man get away with what he's done to my family. I will show my family that I will do anything for them."

Mrs. Lovett bit both of her lips. "You're awful set on this, ain't you?"

"Yes. I am."

If Sweeney had been watching Mrs. Lovett's eyes, he would have seen her make a decision. "All right, then. I'll 'elp you."

Sweeney released her arm with a disapproving noise. He had felt the baker's arm tense within his grip with surprising strength and firmness. What sort of woman had muscles like that? "I don't need your help."

Nellie Lovett was certain that, if Sweeney did succeed in killing Judge Turpin, Lucy would only panic if she found out. She wouldn't be comforted; she would focus on the fact that this new man who claimed to be her husband was a killer and be afraid that he would kill her as well. And who would be there to support and comfort Sweeney but Nellie herself? Not to mention Sweeney had almost no chance of actually killing an official of the law, but if Nellie helped him, not only could she be the liaison between Johanna and Sweeney—which he would appreciate—but she could show how useful she could be to him. Perhaps he might decide to abandon his mad mission entirely if he realized Lucy wasn't for him anymore, that he needed the woman who helped him instead of clinging obsessively to his old self. Surely there was nothing wrong with winning him over if the quest in which she was assisting him was hopeless from the start.

"You think so? You think a nobody like you can manage to off a judge?"

"I am _not _a nobody," he growled.

"Oh, I know that, Mr. T. But most would consider a penniless convict a nobody. You'll need a miracle to even get into the same room as a judge unless you're on trial again, and at the very least you'll need 'elp. How would you be payin' for this room without me 'elp? And would you be wearin' the same clothes tomorrow if I 'adn't brought you a change?"

"It's not that I don't want help. I don't want _your _help."

"Whose 'elp would you take, then? If I do say so meself, it looks like you ain't in much of a position to be choosy."

"Fine. If you help me buy some gifts for Johanna and Lucy that you know they'll like."

"Well…of course. Johanna's quite fond of books, as they're 'er only escape from…"

"Don't talk unless I ask you somethin'. Let's just go to the shops."

Mrs. Lovett shrugged and followed him out the door.

Though he had asked her not to talk, she ended up talking quite a bit. When Mrs. Lovett steered him toward the writing supply store, he wondered aloud what they were doing there.

"Johanna's taken to writin' in addition to readin'. She's got plenty of books, but she'd about die for a new fountain pen. I know they're a bit pricey, but me shop 'ad a fair few customers yesterday and I've got a little extra. And I can usually spot a good bargain."

"My Johanna likes to write? What does she write?"

"Poems, mostly. I don't 'ave much of a 'ead for poetry meself." A small bell chimed above the doorway to the shop as they walked in. "Sometimes it seems like she's writin' about 'er mum keepin' 'er cooped up all day, and sometimes she'll write about ordinary things—she mentions birds an awful lot. But sometimes she'll write about the most fantastic things; magic and such. She's got quite the imagination. You should read some of 'er works; you'd be right proud of 'er."

Mrs. Lovett said all this as she pored over a display of fountain pens set out in front of the main window. Some of the prices made Sweeney feel a bit ill, and judging from the tightness around Mrs. Lovett's mouth and between her eyebrows, she agreed with him. She abandoned the display and explored the store while Sweeney wandered behind her. She ended up finding a small table in a back corner that bore only three fountain pens, fairly different and older models, all at reasonable prices. Mrs. Lovett suggested that Sweeney pick out which one to give Johanna, so he tested them all and selected the one that seemed to write the most smoothly. Buying it would mean using more money than he had planned for one day, but as he walked to the counter, Mrs. Lovett pressed a few extra coins into his hand. Now he had more than enough.

Mrs. Lovett was all for buying a bouquet of flowers for Lucy. "It's romantic, certainly, and it'd be a good way to show 'er you two don't 'ave to miss out on pretty flowers just 'cause of where you were when the lawmen dragged you off." Sweeney still refused to go to the flower market, so he gave Mrs. Lovett his money and ordered her to buy a bouquet of violets and lilies, two flowers that he remembered Lucy liking. Mrs. Lovett suggested gillyflowers, but Sweeney refused, so it was a bouquet of violets and lilies and they ended up delivering to Lucy that night.

"Johanna! Look who I brought 'ome!" Mrs. Lovett sing-songed as she strode through the door of her pie shop. Johanna was sitting at a table, reading. The girl's eyes lit up when she saw him.

"Father!" Johanna slipped a piece of cloth into the book to hold her place before getting up and making her way over to Sweeney to hug him. The way she moved was very stately and deliberate, very mature. Sweeney kissed her forehead.

"You look so like your mother. You're even more beautiful than I remembered from yesterday."

Johanna smiled shyly, and Sweeney wondered if perhaps he should not be acting so fatherly to Johanna right away; he knew instinctively she was his child, for he saw the resemblance between the year-old daughter he had left behind and the elegant young woman standing before him, but she had only his word and comparisons with old photographs to tell her he was her father.

"I brought you somethin'." Sweeney handed Johanna the small wrapped package.

"Thank you." She unwrapped it. "A fountain pen!" A grin spread across her face, and for the first time Sweeney thought she looked like the sixteen-year-old girl she was instead of a prematurely aged woman inside a sixteen-year-old body. "How did you know?"

"I told 'im you were quite the writer," Mrs. Lovett cut in. "And you should show your father some of your poems."

"I'd love to."

A voice sounded from the stairway. "What are you doing here?"

Mrs. Lovett stifled a groan. "Now, Lucy, that ain't no way to greet your husband."

"Lucy." Sweeney's voice was reduced to what was almost a whisper. "I have somethin' for you." He held up her bouquet.

"You…brought me flowers? They took Benjamin away when we were at the flower market!"

"Eh, well, 'e thought you'd like 'em anyway. And I did 'ave to buy them, though it was 'is money and choice of flowers."

Sweeney wished Mrs. Lovett would stop interrupting. "I thought…I thought you could still enjoy your favorite blooms. Despite where…I was taken away."

Lucy descended the stairs, still trailing her fingertips against the wall. Sweeney moved quickly over the floor to her and extended the hand holding the bouquet. Standing on the bottom step, she reached out centimeter by centimeter and finally curled her hand around the stems of the flowers.

"Do you like them?" queried Sweeney anxiously. Behind him, Mrs. Lovett and Johanna exchanged glances. "I know you always liked lilies and violets."

Lucy sniffed the flowers cautiously, as if they might bite.

"Oh, come now, Lucy! You ain't never complained about flowers before, except for the time I brought home poppies and you said they were gaudy."

"They're nice," whispered Lucy, sounding rather like a small child who was being prodded by her mother to compliment a strange gift from the family black sheep.

Unable to stop himself, Sweeney reached for her. She flinched when his palm came to rest on his shoulder. "Lucy…"

"Please, don't." Lucy shied away from him, making as if to retreat upstairs.

"Mother, we ought to get those into some water," Johanna cut in.

Mrs. Lovett gave Johanna's shoulder a squeeze. "That's me girl, always thinkin'. Johanna, make a quick trip to the pump, would you, dear? Just don't fill the 'ole bucket, of course. Lucy, come down 'ere, and pick out a vase for those."

Lucy tiptoed past Sweeney, avoiding his eyes. She and Mrs. Lovett set about selecting a vase for the flowers while Sweeney stood listlessly by the stairs, feeling out of place, a stranger in his own home. Mrs. Lovett noticed his awkwardness. "Mr. Todd, why don't you 'ave a seat? Is there anythin' you'd like to drink? Some ale? Or I could whip up some tea, if you wouldn't mind waitin'. On the 'ouse, of course, since it is your 'ouse."

"Nellie!" cried Lucy, alarmed. Mrs. Lovett elbowed her and gave her a severe look.

"Well, it _is._"

Sweeney presumed that "Nellie" was Mrs. Lovett's given name. A silly, common name. It suited her.

Johanna soon returned with a bucket partway full of water, which she poured into a vase that Lucy had selected. Lucy gingerly slipped the flowers into the vase. "Beautiful!" Mrs. Lovett declared. "They 'ad some lovely violas that I nearly got, but I 'ave to say…good choice, Mr. T."

"I just chose what I knew Lucy would like."

Lucy blushed and turned away.

Mrs. Lovett clasped her hands together. "Well, what does everyone say Mr. Todd stays for supper?" Lucy gaped at Mrs. Lovett in what could have been accurately described as horror, who eyed her and kept right on. "Come now, it wouldn't be courteous to turn 'im out after 'e's brought these fine gifts, would it?"

Sweeney forced down a nervous swallow. He wanted to be with Lucy, but he didn't want to force her to be around him; he wanted her to choose to be with him. "No. It's all right. I'll be off."

"You don't have to," Johanna whispered.

"If Lucy…if Lucy is uncomfortable…" The words shriveled in his mouth. He made for the door.

"Wait!" Johanna rushed off to the upper story.

Mrs. Lovett noticed Sweeney's befuddled look. "She's likely gettin' somethin' she wrote that she wants you to see."

"I wish some of her poems weren't so…morbid," said Lucy, almost to herself.

"Oh, don't be like that. Some of 'em are downright 'opeful," Nellie scolded. "And she'd 'ave less to complain about if you didn't keep the poor thing cooped up all the time."

"It's for her own good!" Lucy hissed.

Mrs. Lovett shrugged. "Well, I'll get supper started. Lucy, 'elp me if you feel like focusin' on it."

Lucy shook her head and climbed the stairs.

Sweeney resisted the temptation to lean against a wall for support. "She's so different."

"I know, sweet. But you still love 'er, and that's what matters."

Johanna came scampering down the stairs, clutching a small stack of papers. "Father? I'd like you to read some of what I wrote."

"I'd love to." He took the papers from her, and hesitated, wanting to hug her again but not sure if he should. Johanna made the decision for him by wrapping her arms around him.

"Aww, ain't that sweet. Father and daughter together at last."

Yes, it was sweet, but he didn't need Mrs. Lovett to point it out. Sweeney let Johanna go and kissed her forehead.

"Will you come back tomorrow?" Johanna queried.

"I'll try, if your mother is all right with it."

Johanna nodded solemnly. She had the eyes of a middle-aged woman, wise and seasoned. Sweeney felt a sudden pang that was almost physically painful, thinking of how much of his daughter's childhood he must have missed.

"Goodbye, Father."

"Goodbye, Johanna."

Sweeney walked off. Johanna watched him go, then turned when she felt Mrs. Lovett's hand on her shoulder. "It must be 'ard for you to finally know your father what with your mother bein' so stubborn about 'im not bein' ere."

"Thank you for finding him." Johanna sighed. "It's a good pen he got me. I know he's trying."

"Of course 'e's tryin', 'e loves you. Oh, you look so miserable, dear. Come 'ere." Nellie held her arms out to Johanna and embraced her. "Don't you worry. We'll sort all this out one way or another, eh?"

"Yes."

"Come now, 'elp me make supper."

* * *

Back in his room at the inn, Sweeney carefully laid out the papers Johanna had given him. Her handwriting was impeccable in places, but sloppier in others, presumably where she had felt particularly inspired and had begun writing more quickly. Often words were crossed out or marked with arrows for rearranging, and some of the messier poems seemed to rewritten entirely after being edited. As he skimmed the many pages, one passage caught his eye:

_The tiger in her cage.  
N__o, not hers—  
__Not even the cage is  
__mine.  
__No bars on the windows  
__really  
__but there might as well be._

_Back  
__and  
__forth  
__back  
__and  
__forth.  
__Claw but don't  
__roar  
__that would bring them.  
__I want to be  
__free  
__must  
__escape._

Trapped in a cage. Was there any more fitting description of a prison cell? A lump rose into his throat and there was a hot, needlelike feeling at the back of his eyes. "Oh, Johanna…I know how you feel…"

* * *

A/N: In the libretto for _Sweeney Todd, _he is said to pick up a "quill pen" before writing his letter to Judge Turpin. The earliest fountain pen was patented by the French government in 1827, reached a peak of popularity in the 1850's and was replaced by a better model in 1883 patented by a dude named L. E. Waterman, so I figured Sweeney would be able to get access to at least an early fountain pen (considerably better than a quill) in 1840, but…I'm in a bit of a tight spot in terms of whether to argue with Hugh Wheeler or history. MEH.

Also, the passage from Johanna's poem is a slightly modified excerpt from a poem I wrote while I was in the psychiatric ward of the hospital. Oh yeah, that…I was locked up in the psych ward for four days last semester after what was nearly a suicide attempt. Yeah, it sucked.


	3. Surveillance

That Which We Call a Rose

Chapter Three: Surveillance

Summary: A story in which Lucy never took arsenic, one generation begins and another continues, an execution is narrowly averted, and much controversy over names and their power.

Disclaimer: If I owned _Sweeney Todd_, neither Sweeney nor Mrs. Lovett would have died. So needless to say, I don't own it.

Pairings: AnthonyJohanna, Swucy, Sweenett

Author's Notes: Apparently I'm keeping up the tradition of posting during vacations off from school. Academics consumed my soul after Spring Break; I go to Smith College in Massachusetts, and for those of you who aren't familiar with Smith, it's rigorous as FUCK. I did nothing but sleep, watch geeky TV shows and movies, and cuddle with my girlfriend (3) during the week after finals in order to recover…but now I present you with another chapter.

* * *

Mrs. Lovett was apparently set on visiting Sweeney every day. The day after Johanna first gave Sweeney some of her poems, the baker returned to the inn in the mid-afternoon. She brought him enough food for two full meals, claiming he looked a little peaked and he should look healthy for Lucy. He also made her write him a list of possible gifts for Lucy and Johanna so she wouldn't have to tag along behind him, giving advice while he shopped.

"Why don't you come over for supper tonight again? I'll get Johanna to talk to 'er, finesse 'er a bit. Or per'aps I could offer to make supper, and then make enough for four; it'd be a shame to waste food."

Sweeney just grunted.

"Mr. T.? What's the matter?"

He didn't reply.

"Mr. T, I know you've got this wonderful idea to do away with the Judge stewin' away in your 'ead, but you've still got'ta make some attempt to be with your family. You wan'na see your daughter, don't you?"

"She's a good writer."

"She is, ain't she? Did you read that poem of 'ers about the lil' finch that pecks away patiently at 'er cage for years, then finally flies away into the sunlight? Normally I ain't so fond of poetry, but that was a nice one. Real 'opeful."

"Yes."

She sighed. "Would you be more interested in talkin' about 'ow you plan to kill the Judge, then?"

"As a matter fact, yes," said Sweeney icily.

"Well, all right, then." She seated herself on the corner of the bed. "You thought of any way to kill a public figure without bein' caught?"

"It has to happen somewhere where no one will see. In his own home…that would be perfect…on his own…huntin' ground…"

"In 'is own 'ome! Mr. T., are you daft? 'ow in God's name are you goin' to get into the Judge's 'ouse without bein' caught?"

"Kill everyone who gets in my way." He swung the razor in an arc, the light glinting off the blade as it sung through the air.

Mrs. Lovett got up and laid her hand on Sweeney's arm. "It's too dangerous. And is it really necessary to kill all the Judge's servants? Surely just the Judge 'imself is enough."

"Anyone who associates with the Judge deserves to die!"

She sighed impatiently. "That's all very well, but it's you I worry about. Turpin's a rich man and there are sure to be many people workin' in 'is 'ouse. If you get to killin' 'em all, it'll only take one to go run for the law."

He made one of his noncommittal grunting noises, which Mrs. Lovett was quickly learning meant "I heard you speaking, but I didn't listen." She squeezed his arm, hoping to get his attention. "You can't be reckless! What good would it do Johanna to just meet 'er father and then see 'im dragged off to prison or executed?"

Mentioning Johanna, as she had hoped, got him to listen. But of course, he was upset. "What would you suggest I do?" he snapped.

"Well, we know the Judge goes after women with no regard for what they want. Surely 'e's got servant girls workin' for 'im who are 'urtin'. I'd bet one of them would love to see 'im dead, and let you into the 'ouse."

Sweeney paused, thinking about it. "And how do you propose I get one of these poor servant girls to let me into the house?"

Mrs. Lovett chose to ignore his sarcasm. "Per'aps 'e sends one of 'em to market for 'im. I'll keep me eyes out for a servant of Turpin's next time I shop. Even if she ain't a young girl 'e's 'urt, I might be able to figure out 'is schedule. Besides, if 'e ever goes anywhere alone, I can find that out too…"

"No. It has to be in his house."

Mrs. Lovett closed her eyes for a moment, struggling to keep her patience. "Very well, then, I'll see what I can do."

Sweeney turned away from her and she heard him mutter, "Not much, I'm certain."

"Well, what are you plannin' to do? Follow 'im everywhere?"

"Yes! I can't very well go to the Judge's house to kill him if I don't know when he's at home. I will have to learn his schedule."

"Mr. T., you realize I could easily get that from a servant," Nellie sighed.

He was through paying attention. "Mr. Todd?"

"Leave me."

She sighed and obeyed. Johanna was waiting for her at the front door.

"How is Father?"

"Oh, 'e's doin' fine, just a bit…moody is all. 'e's still awful upset 'e can't see you and your mother."

Johanna sighed. "Could I come with you the next time you see him?"

"I don't think so, sweet; if I say you're comin' with me to the market or some such, your mother will know where we're really goin'." That brought up another issue, though; Nellie went to the market every week, and Johanna occasionally came with her despite Lucy's distrust of the world beyond the walls of 186 Fleet Street. It would be possible to bring Johanna with her on her next trip to the market and make a quick visit to Mr. Todd after the shopping was done, but then Nellie wouldn't be able to interact with any of Turpin's employees. Although as long as Nellie was lying about Johanna accompanying her on an ordinary trip to the market, did Johanna really have to get to the market at all? "Well, I suppose you could come with me on me weekly trip to market in a few days, and..." Nellie glanced over Johanna's shoulder to make sure Lucy wasn't lurking in the stairway. "I could just bring you to see your father, then do me shoppin', and bring you 'ome when I'm done."

"I'd best tell Mother soon that I'll be accompanying you to the market. She doesn't like surprises," Johanna observed.

"Oh, I know that well, sweet." Nellie gave Johanna a quick hug. "Supper rush'll be startin' soon. I'd best get to work."

"I'll help."

"You're a good girl, Johanna. I'm certain your father's quite proud of you."

"He barely knows me," Johanna whispered.

"Eh, well, 'e'll know you better soon, and I'd lay odds readin' your poetry's 'elped 'im more than a lot of talkin' would. 'e was real impressed with your writin', by the way."

"Was he? Really?" The young woman's eyes lit up.

"Oh, yes. 'e said you were a right good writer. 'e ain't a man of many words, your father is." As she spoke, Mrs. Lovett began moving toward the counter, retrieving ingredients for the night's dinner.

"Was he always like that?"

"Like what, dear?" Mrs. Lovett searched noisily through a cupboard.

"Not a man of many words. Was he always like that?" Johanna paused. "Mother never says much about him. Just that she always believed he would come back."

Mrs. Lovett thought on that for a moment. "Well, 'e was always quiet, in a shy sort of way. Now 'e just seems too wrapped in 'is own thoughts to speak much."

Johanna was quiet then, but looked as if she were still meditating on something. Mrs. Lovett saw that look. "I know you've got plenty of questions, but your father's the best one to answer them. Why don't you keep your mother company?"

The young woman nodded and proceeded slowly up the stairs.

"Poor girl," Mrs. Lovett muttered to herself as she returned to the dinner preparations.

Nellie Lovett always made her weekly market run on Friday afternoons. So that Friday, she left the pie shop with Johanna at her side. They set off in the direction of the market at first just in case Lucy was watching from a window, then veered off in the direction of the inn where Mr. Todd was staying. When Mrs. Lovett knocked on the door, Sweeney snarled at her. "Just leave whatever it is you have for me this time outside!"

"The 'whatever it is I 'ave' just 'appens to be your daughter, and I don't think she'd much appreciate bein' abandoned. She wants to talk to you."

Of course, the door was immediately thrown open. "Johanna."

"Father!" Johanna flung her arms around her father's neck.

"She's been wantin' to see you somethin' awful," Mrs. Lovett remarked. Sweeney ignored her, so she chose to say "I'll just be off, then," and take her leave.

Mrs. Lovett set off quickly for the market. She had never spoken to any men or women who worked in the household of Judge Turpin, but a friend of hers knew a woman called Peggy Witt who often grumbled about the judge's decadent ideas of what should be in his supper every night and what a waste of money it all was.

She kept a sharp eye pealed as she picked through the cartons of produce, even as she made small talk with a few acquaintances of hers. Unfortunately, the friend who knew Miss Witt was not among them. Still, she thought she could pick out Miss Witt by her friend's description alone.

The woman turned out to be quite hard to miss. Slightly stooped and dressed in all black, constantly grousing to herself about the state of the products on sale and quite often giving hell to the stall attendants. Mrs. Lovett quickly maneuvered herself to a stall where Miss Witt was shaking a hunk of garlic in a seller's face. "The state of things is awful sad, ain't it?" said Lovett after the seller had slunk away, glancing at the offending garlic with opprobrium.

"Hmph! You don't need to tell me, Miss," said Miss Witt, half snarling. Now that Mrs. Lovett could see her face, she could tell that the old woman's face was so wrinkled it was hard to tell where the mouth was unless it was moving.

"That'll be Mrs. Lovett, Miss Witt," Mrs. Lovett corrected in as courteous a tone as she could muster.

Miss Witt made a noncommittal noise. "Matilda knows you."

"That she does." Lovett hesitated for a moment. "She also mentioned you've many complaints about workin' in the Turpin 'ousehold?"

The woman snorted. "And I suppose she also warned you not to get me started!"

Mrs. Lovett gave a polite laugh. "Not that I mind, Miss."

Luckily, Miss Witt was the type who enjoyed complaining, as Mrs. Lovett had gathered from what her friend Matilda had said. According to Miss Witt, the Judge kept odd hours and was always fickle about when his meals were, which wreaked havoc on any schedule the servants tried to keep. The one scheduling detail in which he was consistent was Friday suppertime, which was to be at seven in the evening exactly. Mrs. Lovett filed that detail away in her memory for Mr. Todd. And when Miss Witt carped about how the biweekly market visits she had to make were unnecessary, especially with her aching knees and bad back, Mrs. Lovett filed that detail away in her memory for herself—for future research. After a while, conversing with Miss Witt became a bit tiresome, for not only did she take an odd pleasure in complaining, she did not take much stock in mutual complaining, even when Mrs. Lovett tried to get a word in edgewise about aching knees. Lovett herself knew the merits of a good long frustrated ramble, but she rather hoped her good long frustrated rambles were more interesting.

When Mrs. Lovett finally extricated herself from the conversation, she hastily finished her shopping and proceeded back to the inn. She wanted him to have time with his daughter, of course, but Lucy would worry and become suspicious if they came back late. She waited outside the door to Sweeney's room, waiting until there was a lull in the conversation between Johanna and Sweeney while trying not to eavesdrop. Johanna, predictably, was doing most of the talking, though she was naturally quiet; the monosyllabic Sweeney spoke even less. When it seemed appropriate, she rapped lightly on the door. She heard Sweeney make a noise of disappointment as Johanna opened the door.

"We'd best be gettin' back, dear. Your mother'll worry."

Johanna nodded and went to retrieve her jacket. When she had finished putting it on, Mr. Todd embraced her tightly. "I'll see you soon, Father," Johanna promised.

"Good-bye, Johanna." He spoke so quietly that Mrs. Lovett could hardly hear him. She couldn't picture the stoic and brooding Sweeney shedding tears if her life depended on it, but she could have sworn he sounded as if he were about to cry.

Johanna was silent for a while as they walked, so Mrs. Lovett prodded, "So 'ow is 'e?"

"He misses Mother. And he wants to know everything."

"Everythin'?"

"Everything about why Mother is so high-strung; he tells me she used to be different. He wants to know how…how she managed to raise me. I keep telling him you were quite a help, but…I don't know if he believes me."

Mrs. Lovett chuckled dryly. "I think it's more of a matter of 'im not wantin' to believe it."

"Why doesn't he like you?"

The baker linked arms with the girl who was like a daughter to her. "Oh, 'e just wants 'is perfect family with you and your mum, the way 'e always thought it would be. There just ain't room for me." _At least not yet_, she added to herself.

"He's just so _sad_. He wants to know so much about my childhood and the things I'm interested in now, but he won't say a word about himself, even though it's obvious something terrible has happened to him."

"I'd lay odds 'e's tryin' to protect you. God knows what they did to 'im in that place."

"Everyone thinks I need protectin'." Johanna sighed.

"What'd you just say?" Lovett's voice suddenly had just the slightest edge.

"Protect_ing_. I'm sorry." Johanna gave her aunt a small, embarrassed smile.

"You know your mother don't like it when you pick up me accent. But you're right. You're sixteen and your mother treats you like a child. Your father, though…'e's got things to say that'd make one's hair curl, I'm sure." Mrs. Lovett paused. "Did 'e ask you to try to get your mother to come see 'im, or let 'im come home?"

Johanna hung her head slightly. "No. But it's plain as day he wants to come home."

They were almost to 186 Fleet Street. Mrs. Lovett paused outside the door to lift Johanna's chin with one hand and say, "Don't you worry, dear. It'll all come good in the end."

* * *

The next day when Mrs. Lovett paid her daily visit to Sweeney, he wasn't in, and of course he hadn't thought to leave her a note. The door was locked. She could only assume that he was out following Judge Turpin; it was unlikely that he'd be running any other errand, since she'd been bringing him anything that he might need.

He was also gone the next day, and the next. His absences continued until she still hadn't seen him at all by the next time she had an opportunity to talk to Peggy Witt. While the woman had been quite helpful with information about Turpin's schedule, she was no use at all at figuring out if Sweeney could find an ally in the Turpin household who would let him in the house on his morbid mission. Obviously she was of such advanced age Turpin would never go after her, and she was a very specific sort of complainer, one who only enjoyed complaining about things that happened to her. So when Sweeney finally was in his room when Lovett tried to visit, they had both learned roughly the same thing.

"Where've you been all these days, Mr. Todd?"

"Have you not ever heard of surveillance, Mrs. Lovett?"

"Of course I 'ave. But I learned as much as you did in all those days from one conversation with a crotchety old woman."

He ignored her. He didn't even bother to make a noncommittal noise. So she decided to test him.

"What time does the Judge eat supper on Friday nights?"

He thought for a moment before saying, "Six-thirty."

"That may be the time 'e gets 'ome, but supper is right at seven," she corrected. He gave her a look that could have fried an egg in a pan without the use of any flame. She stared frankly back at him, but his…hostility toward her was starting to unnerve her. She was trying to help him; why was he so irritable with her?

"Mr. T., I'm tryin' to 'elp you. You don't 'ave to be so touchy."

He surprised both himself and her by answering, "I know" and letting his expression soften.

She decided to take a risk; she went to his side and slipped a hand into his. "Don't you worry, Mr. Todd. We can do this."

He pulled his hand away. "I could do it now. Simply knock on the door on a Friday night, when I know he'll be home…"

"I still would say that's far too risky! You need to 'ave somebody inside who can let you in, and manage to get you through the 'ouse without bein' caught. I know you'd enjoy killin' everybody what gets in your way, but 'ave you even killed anyone before? You ain't exactly…practiced."

"Maybe I should be," the barber muttered. He pulled a razor seemingly out of nowhere, but then Mrs. Lovett realized he had fashioned a sort of holster on his belt where he could keep it.

"Now, we ain't goin' to run around killin' just for practice," Mrs. Lovett scolded, as if admonishing a naughty child. "You'll be fine if you just 'ave to do in the Judge, I'm sure."

"How do you propose I get into the house?" At one point he might have snapped, but now he merely sounded deadpan instead of angry.

"I'll work somethin' out. Worst comes to worst, I'll take a job in the Judge's 'ouse and I'll let you in."

He gave her a startled glance. Mrs. Lovett mentally noted that the number of expressions he had shown her was up to three; cold indifference, annoyance, and now surprise. "You'd do that?"

"Well, yes. I said I'd 'elp you, didn't I?"

For a long moment, he looked as if he had no idea what to say. She waited patiently. "It's dangerous. You know what the Judge is."

"No less dangerous than enterin' a wealthy man's 'ome that's crawlin' with people in order to kill 'im and expectin' to get out unscathed," she pointed out.

He stared at her as a small boy might study a puzzle whose pieces didn't seem to fit right. Then, "Why do you care so much?"

_Oh, bloody damn_. "Because…I care about you." The question had caught her off-guard and she almost winced at her own blunt honesty. "I mean, God only knows what you've been through, and all alone. I figure…it's about time you 'ad some 'elp," she added hastily.

Apparently fed up with trying to figure her out, he turned away. Understanding that he was finished talking, Mrs. Lovett left.

It was only the following day when Mrs. Lovett found a possible safe way into the Judge's house. She went to the market expecting to see Peggy Witt, but she wasn't there. Hoping that Turpin had sent a new servant who might be more helpful to Sweeney's plan, Mrs. Lovett scanned the crowd intently. Almost immediately, she spotted something as conspicuous as a kingfisher in a flock of starlings; a young girl, likely younger than Johanna, with a mop of white-blond curls and a basket that she clutched tightly to her chest. She walked with her shoulders hunched and her eyes wide, glancing every which way as if she'd never seen so many people. She looked scared to death. Mrs. Lovett had seen those eyes before; they looked exactly like Lucy's had the night she came stumbling home from Turpin's bal masque.

The baker swiftly made her way over to where the terror-stricken girl was flitting around and tried to make herself look as available as possible. The girl ended up nearly tripping into her while trying to walk one way and look another. "Steady there, young one," said Mrs. Lovett, helping the girl to her feet. "Why, you look like there's a black boggart after you."

The girl looked even more frightened up close. "I'm…I'm so sorry, Ma'am. I'm just…I was lookin' for…I…"

"Easy, now," Lovett crooned. "What is it you're lookin' for?"

The girl blinked rapidly, as if trying not to cry. "Herbs. I need some…some rosemary…" A choked little sob escaped her. "Excuse me…" She wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

_What did Turpin do to this poor little girl? _"Ain't no need to apologize for tears, Miss…"

"…Parker. Gracie Parker." Her accent was country, definitely not from London. Had she left her home for better prospects in the city?

"If you don't mind me askin', Miss Parker, do you work in the 'ouse of Judge Turpin?"

Mrs. Lovett had been wrong earlier in thinking that the girl could not possibly look any more horrified. "But 'ow did you know?"

"I just 'ad a feelin'. 'e did you wrong, didn't 'e?" The resulting sob was all the answer Mrs. Lovett needed. "You ain't in no condition to be out. Tell you what; I'm the proprietor of a meat pie emporium in Fleet Street. What do you say to a cup of tea on the 'ouse?"

"Oh no, Ma'am, I couldn't impose..."

"Nonsense! I ain't never seen someone more in need a nice hot cup of tea." Mrs. Lovett slipped a friendly arm around the girl. "Come with me, now." And Gracie went without protesting.

When they arrived at the pie shop, Mrs. Lovett poked her head in the door and called for Johanna (who was in the sitting room reading) to come and help her boil some water for tea. Johanna made her way to the kitchen and, upon seeing Mrs. Lovett guide Gracie into the room, queried, "Aunt Nellie, who's this?"

"'er name is Gracie Parker. She works for Judge Turpin."

Comprehension crossed Johanna's face and she immediately set about boiling the water.

"Does everyone in this city know what a…a monster that man is but me?" Gracie wept.

"Shhh, now, there was no way you could've known, not if you're new to the city. It ain't your fault," Lovett soothed. "'ere, sit down."

The girl sat. She was trembling a little. "It was just this mornin'," she whimpered. "Just before 'e told me I was to be the one to go to market, 'stead o' Miss Witt. See, 'e…'e…"

"You don't 'ave to talk about it, dear, not if it upsets you." Mrs. Lovett moved to help Johanna with the tea and startled a little when Gracie grabbed her wrist.

"I…I saw the sign. You're Mrs. Lovett?"

"That I am, Miss."

"Thank you, Mrs. Lovett."

"You're quite welcome. Now I won't be able to make your tea if I can't get to the kettle, will I?"

Gracie let go and sat in the booth with her arms wrapped around herself.

"Poor thing," Johanna whispered as Mrs. Lovett came over to the counter. "What did he do?"

"Oh, I don't wan'na make 'er talk about it."

"It's kind of you to bring her here," Johanna said softly.

"It's just me warm 'eart, dear. She looks to be about your age; why don't you talk to 'er while I make the tea?"

When the teakettle whistled, Mrs. Lovett poured cups of tea for herself, Johanna and Gracie.

"Do you take your tea with milk and sugar, Miss Parker?"

"That'd be Gracie, if you will, Ma'am," said the servant girl, whom Johanna had managed to calm down considerably. "And yes, please."

"Johanna!" came a cry from upstairs. "Will you come help me?"

"It's Mother. I'd best see to her. Aunt Nellie, you can pour mine back into the teapot; there's no sense in it going to waste." Johanna got up from the table and made her way upstairs.

"Will that be one lump or two, Gracie?"

"Two, please."

Mrs. Lovett finished mixing the tea and offered Gracie her cup, which she took gratefully. The baker sat down next to the young woman.

"Not everyone knows what the 'great Judge Turpin', as Johanna's mother calls 'im when she's feelin' ironic, really is," Lovett explained. "But Johanna's mother does. She was the…object of 'is affections, if one can call it that, years ago."

"Did 'e…'urt 'er?"

"No, 'e didn't, but it was awful close. And you know what else? Judge Turpin accused Johanna's father of a crime what 'e didn't commit and 'ad 'im transported, just so 'e could get to Johanna's mother. Now, you mustn't tell anyone, as it's illegal for a lifer to come back, but Johanna's father's back in London. And 'e wants Turpin to pay for what 'e did."

Gracie made a sound between a laugh and a sob, then drowned it in a sip of tea. "Poor man. I don't blame 'im."

Mrs. Lovett hoped Gracie would see it that way. She hesitated a bit before speaking again, as she didn't want Gracie to think that her concern stemmed only from a desire to help Mr. Todd, but in this case, it was best to move quickly. "You see, Gracie, Mr. Todd—Johanna's father—needs some 'elp. I don't know if you know this, but Judge Turpin 'as a whole library filled with books about…well, as 'e puts it, everythin' a man's ever dreamed of doin' with a woman. 'e spends much of 'is free time there. Mr. Todd wants to find 'im there and, well, punish 'im."

Gracie took another sip of her tea. "You want me to let 'im into the 'ouse."

_Smart girl_. "That'd be right."

The young woman sighed. "Did you only bring me 'ere to ask me that?"

"Oh, no, Gracie. I brought you 'ere 'cause you needed some cheerin' up, and because I can't stand seein' young girls 'urtin'…and if you 'elp Mr. Todd, the Judge won't 'urt any young girls ever again." Lovett gave Gracie's shoulder a squeeze.

Gracie nodded. "But I thought Johanna said 'er surname was Barker."

"It is, but 'er father changed 'is name to protect 'imself."

The girl thought for a moment. "When?"

"This Friday night, after seven, 'cause that's one of the only times when 'e's at 'ome regular-like."

"Friday night," Gracie whispered. "You've been investigatin' well. 'e is always 'ome Friday nights for 'is supper. But…can it be sooner? Before 'e comes after me again?"

"Oh, of course. If you know a time when 'e'll be 'ome for certain."

"'e's got a case tomorrow night. It's a complicated case, and I over'eard 'im say 'e'll want to retire right after 'e gets back at about nine. But…I didn't know about the…the contents of 'is library, but 'e's often there when 'e should be sleepin'."

Mrs. Lovett chose not to think about what Judge Turpin was doing in the library instead of sleeping. "I'll tell Mr. Todd, then. Tomorrow night after nine?"

"Yes." She brushed her knuckles lightly against the girl's cheek. "If the Fates are favorin' you at all, Gracie, 'e'll be dead before 'e can 'urt you again."

"Thank you." She paused. "Could I work 'ere after 'e's dead?"

That came as a bit of a surprise, but a pleasant one. Johanna provided all the help Mrs. Lovett needed around the pie shop, but if Mrs. Lovett were to hire some extra help, Johanna could get a job of her own. She'd been angling to try getting work for several months, but of course Lucy would have none of it, and always resorted to "But aren't you happy working for Mrs. Lovett?"

"Well…I certainly don't see why not! Johanna's me 'elper now, but she's been wantin' to get work somewhere she'd get paid for a bit, and she could do that if I was to 'ire you."

Gracie smiled. Mrs. Lovett hadn't seen that expression on her face before. "Thank you."

Mrs. Lovett returned the smile. She would have excellent news for Mr. Todd later that day.

When Gracie had finished her tea, she departed to finish her shopping. It wasn't long afterward that Johanna came down the stairs. "What did your mother want?"

"Just some help with one of her needlepoints. Is Gracie gone?"

"Yes. Poor thing. She seemed a sight calmer, though."

"Good. She's a sweet girl. Barely fifteen, too! It isn't fair that something so awful should happen to her."

Mrs. Lovett couldn't help but smile at Johanna speaking of a girl so close to her age as if Johanna were ten years older. "She asked if she could work 'ere. If she becomes me 'elper, you might be able to get a job of your own."

Johanna's eyes lit up. "Really? But Mother…"

"I'll 'andle your mother."

There was a knock at the front door. That was odd, since customers normally walked in without preamble. Mrs. Lovett opened the door to reveal a young fresh-faced man of about seventeen, dressed in clothes that were by no means rich but not shabby either. His light hair was long, and looked as if it was normally unkempt but he had made some attempt at straightening it. He was carrying a bouquet of flowers.

"May I 'elp you, sir?"

"That'll be Anthony Hope, ma'am. Is this the residence of Johanna Barker?"

Mrs. Lovett struggled to hide her surprise. "Technically, that'd be upstairs, but this is the right address." She slitted her eyes a bit. "You know Johanna?"

"Well—no, not…not personally, but…but I saw her leavin' the inn, and Mr. Todd said she was his daughter…"

"You know Mr. Todd?" Mrs. Lovett's eyebrows leapt up several centimeters.

"Yes, ma'am. He's a good friend of mine. I'm a sailor on the _Bountiful _out of Plymouth, and when I noticed Mr. Todd stranded in the ocean, I insisted that we pick him up."

"Ah. Well, you 'ave me thanks for savin' im." _Although I ain't sure about 'im bein' a "good friend" of yours. _Figuring that Johanna had had enough of merely overhearing the conversation, she opened the door. "Come in."

Johanna was waiting at a polite distance from the door. "Good evening, Mr. Hope."

"Johanna," whispered the sailor in the single most love-struck voice Mrs. Lovett had ever heard. "Um…I brought these for you." He proffered the flowers and she took them.

"Thank you, Mr. Hope."

Mrs. Lovett drifted over to her counter to begin work on the pies for the dinner rush. She could be Johanna's chaperon and bake at the same time.

"Perhaps you could call me Anthony?" The tone of his voice perfectly suited his surname, despite the request.

"Certainly, Anthony. I beg your pardon, but did I hear you say you are a sailor?"

"Yes! Yes. I am."

"I take it you've been to many exotic places."

"Oh, yes, Johanna. I've beheld many of the world's wonders!"

A sailor. Well, if anything could interest Johanna, it would be the stories of a world traveler. Being constantly sequestered in the house except for the occasional trip to the market, Johanna longed to know about not just the rest of London but the rest of the world. Anthony would likely be able to entertain her for hours with stories of his travels. The boy didn't seem to be all that bright, but perhaps that was only the lovesickness. Mrs. Lovett could easily see the two getting along well.

_Bloomin' 'ell…I wonder what Mr. Todd will think of this._A/N: I really didn't intend for there to be an OC in this fic, but apparently my fingers agreed with Mrs. Lovett's assessment that just killing everybody who got in the way was not the brightest idea on Sweeney's part and just wrote her in. Also, I wanted her name to be Molly Dunaway, but she liked Gracie Parker better. Damn sentient fanfiction…


End file.
